Spirit
by Nobodyknowsmenow
Summary: Another house of Stewards tale Mettare past. Father's love. Fluff! One shot.


This- again- was written to rid me of the dreaded writers block! I hope my readers enjoy it! It is cliched- I apologize ahead of time. But it IS readable- just, as I say, not the best ever.

Disclaimer- standard- also be it known that this is NOT my best story. By any stretch of any imagination. Thanks!

Spirits

Mettare was a festive occasion in the years of the King. To be sure, they had tried to be merry during the years of the last steward, but it had been hard. War loomed over their heads in those years, the shadow darkening the joy of the New Year, and their happiness even, had been sad.

Faramir smiled, blowing on his fingers to warm them as he finished the last piece of paper to be filed. Crackling and popping slowly, the fire had been dying for the last hour; it was becoming cold in the office.

"Come, Faramir!" Aragorn stuck his head in the door. Ever since the last year, when Faramir had cut himself at this time, Aragorn had become more and watchful, and the few times Faramir had been that depressed, Aragorn had held him until he wept, instead of bled, the pain away.

"I am coming. Allow me to finish."

"No!" Aragorn grabbed him by the arm and dragged him from the chilling study, and locked the door behind them, triumphantly pocketing the key.

"Aragorn!" Faramir howled. "My _fingers!_"

"Sorry!" Aragorn gasped as he struggled with the lock.

Faramir was using language he could have only learned in the army- he certainly had never heard it from the people of the court!

The lock was stuck. Faramir was now leaning against the door, silent tears pouring down his face from the agony of having them stuck between the door and the jamb.

Finally, the door opened, and Faramir instantly put his fingers into his mouth, even as he glared at the King who sheepishly relocked the door.

"Bugger." He growled around his fingers. "I won't be able to write for a week!"

"Sorry." Aragorn said. "Are you all right?" Faramir took his hand from his mouth and looked at it. Already the fingers were turning colors, and the skin was peeled in sections. He just glared in response. "I said sorry!" Aragorn protested.

Faramir glowered. "You'll have to do all my work as well as your own is all." He said. "It just hurts like nothing. I'll be fine." He smiled then. "Dinner?" he asked hopefully. Aragorn nodded.

"Definitely."

They hurried to the King's private dining room, where Arwen and Eowyn awaited them.

"How was your day, dear?" Eowyn asked, hugging her husband tightly. "Happy Mettare!"

"And to you." Faramir said, kissing her gently. She smiled up at him, and pulled him close again.

They all sat down and began to eat their dinner, and simply enjoy the little family they had made, since none of them had any real family left, in the area at least.

Arwen shivered. "Cold, dearest?" Aragorn asked, and she shook her head.

"No, it is merely I remembered what my father used to say. He said that 'Mettare is the time when ghosts walk about', and I wondered if any watch us now."

"Who cares what the dead see?" Aragorn asked. "I don't."

Eowyn raised an eyebrow. "I don't believe in ghosts." She said firmly. "I've never seen one."

"One assumes you _do_ remember the witch king?" They all laughed, and talk moved to other matters, such as- did you hear what Lady Mariel had _said _that afternoon!

Faramir's eyes were vacant, and he spoke little throughout the meal.

"A copper for your thoughts?" Arwen interrupted, and Faramir started.

"Eh? What?" he asked.

"What are you thinking of that you do not speak, nor laugh, despite the fact we are discussing Lord Hithlen losing his false teeth in the soup?" Arwen asked. "Surely not office work?"

"No, my lady." He replied. "Merely of Mettare past."

"And what of them that make you look so sober? I had thought it to be a joyous time of year for mortals."

"It is." Faramir shrugged. "It was."

"Tell us of one with your family!" Aragorn pleaded. "I wish to hear all about it."

"I don't remember many." Faramir said.

"Tell us one you do remember! The best one." Eowyn begged. She loved her husbands' stories.

Faramir smiled indulgently. "The best Mettare ever? It was the last time Father was truly Father. After that his temper got worse and worse. I was the reason that happened. He was so desperate to know how I fared that he used the orb again." He sighed. "But it was happy because I knew, really knew that Father loved me dearly, though I do not think he ever said it again. Not to me, at least."

"Tell us!" Arwen begged.

Faramir smiled. "Well, it was the winter I was twenty five. I had been a commander for seven years-"

Faramir blew on his fingers to warm them. Stiff and sore from the cold as they were, he needed to be sure that they retained at least a little elasticity and feeling. After all, he was a bowman. His fingers and hands were his life!

He stamped his feet in the frozen mud in front of the tent before shoving the canvas back and grinning.

Boromir was curled up like a big dog in a blanket, snoring peacefully. Watching him sleep tuned the grin down to a soft smile, and he gently closed the flap before sitting down beside the small coal heater. He held his hands to the dying warmth and waited for Boromir to wake.

Let him sleep- heaven only knew there was little enough of that to be had.

It had been a long hard cold walk from Ithilien to Pelennor. Faramir closed his eyes for just a moment… warmth was beginning to seep into his bones.

He knew he shouldn't sleep; he was too cold to sleep…

In the end, it was Boromir who woke Faramir with a slap to the face. The coal fire had gone out, and the metal was now frosted. His breath hung in the air like a fog.

"Heavens, Fara!" Boromir choked. "You shouldn't sleep so in such cold, you'll not wake!" he pulled his brother to him, hugging him tight, and Faramir shivered.

"S-Sorry." He stammered and Boromir sighed as he rubbed his little brother's fingers in his own warm hands. He was always warm it seemed; Faramir thought it hardly fair. Boromir soon had the little coal fire going again. "C-c-couldn't help i-i-i-ttt."

"Hush your chattering." Boromir said gently and handed him a mug of rewarmed tea. The beverage brought Faramir back to wakefulness and Boromir took the mug from him to hold him close, settling his younger brothers' cold hands on his neck under the collar of his tunic.

"We going home?" he managed not to chatter.

"Such as it is, yes." Boromir smiled. "At the very least, they shall have a warm bed!"

"What ab-b-b-bout the men?"

Boromir sighed. "I have done all that I can. Those who have family near are going there on leave, and taking their mates with them."

Faramir nodded. "And those who don't?"

"Double rations and light work, enough to keep the blood running. I've ordered fires as long as this bloody cold lasts… Your men? You're in a bloody cave!"

"Stay inside, except for the dawn and dark patrols. Keep the fire pit burning- there are no haradhrim about in this bitter weather, nor yet many orcs."

"Good." Boromir agreed, hugging himself. "At least there's no wind to worry them."

"Aye, there's that, but precious little tucker for them, and being behind that waterfall makes it so cold." Faramir sighed, feeling tears prick his eyes as he thought of his men, freezing and starving for a pittance and love. "I tell you, Boromir, we need more supplies! The hunting is damned poor, and… I am sorry, brother, I know there is little you can do. I simply had to… I don't know." Faramir apologized, and Boromir hugged him silently.

He understood. Boromir always understood.

"Shall we mount now and head for the City?"

"What's to lose?" Faramir asked, following his brother from the semi-warm tent. You could see your breath in it, yes, but the wind did not go through you. He tightened his threadbare cloak to him, and kept close behind Boromir, letting the greater bulk break the biting wind.

There was only a little snow on the ground, the fields endless brown and grey and black with patches of white. It was bleak, but Faramir loved the silent loneliness.

Soon he was in the City, and the wind had died down to a soft moan. The horses picked up their feet, soon they would be back to the warm stable!

Faramir smiled as he poured out the steaming mash for his horse. Ahh, but the molasses on top made her happy. He picked up the curry and hummed to himself as he smoothed her coat to metallic shininess.

"There now." He purred. "All's well for the night." Soon the horses were watered, and he and his brother climbed the last level slowly. The warmth of the stable left him as soon as he left the yard, and Faramir was again chilled through.

Then they were there, past the white tree, and in through the great hall, empty at this late hour, and the last vestiges of light from the winter sun faded.

They were home, such as it was.

"My sons!" Boromir was held tightly to Denethor. "I have missed you so much!"

Faramir shifted his weight. "Hello, father." He said quietly. Denethor turned and looked at him, and his eyes widened.

"Good Eru, child, are you ill?" he asked worriedly. "Have you _been_ ill, or wounded? You're so pale, child." Faramir almost stiffened as he was pulled into a warm hug. "I've missed you both." Denethor murmured, pulling back from his younger son- and were those _tears_ in the Stewards eyes? No, it couldn't be. He touched his younger sons face, and Faramir leaned into his father's warm fingers.

"It's so good to be home. I've missed you too." The brothers said together, and the family laughed. For just a second, the halls echoed from years of laughter gone by, before Denethor's heart began to freeze.

"Baths for both of you, and then what say to an early dinner?" Denethor made it sound like a suggestion, but it was not. Not that Faramir minded someone else telling him what to do.

The bath was lovely, the water steaming hot and finally, he was clean again, and warm nearly all the way through. He sighed in bliss. Heaven…

Reluctantly he rose from the bath when his fingers and toes began to pucker. He dressed and lounged in front of the fire, stroking his cat, Kikki. She was old- nearly eighteen now. A good old cat, though. Her purr was rusty and her fur was thinning but she was still death on paws to mice and rats, which was why Denethor, who hated small animals in general, tolerated her.

Later, he went to the dinner. Denethor was quiet, and so was he, listening to Boromir as he talked.

He could feel his father's eyes on him, but he did not expect him to reach out and take his left hand into his own and look at it.

"Faramir." Denethor choked. "Your hands."

He couldn't help it. He had to pull his hand away. Both his hands were raw and red, the skin cracked and bleeding, nails bitten past the quick. He had picked up that habit during his first months as commander, and never lost it. The texture of his skin was like leather from windburn, and it itched and throbbed horribly.

"Did you not wear gloves? I know you have some!"

"I don't, sir. Mine- well, I had to use my bow, quickly, so I took them off, and…"

"They were lost in the shuffle." Denethor sighed. "Why didn't you just take some more from the 'slop chest' and dock your pay?"

"We don't have any in there." Faramir said quietly. "The chest is rather bare. We have a few scarves, socks, and a knife or two, some medicines that will do no one any good. That's about the extent of it."

Denethor just looked at his son. "I had wondered why your handwriting changed. I see why, now." They ate in silence for a moment. "I'm so sorry, Faramir." Denethor said quietly.

Faramir could not believe his ears. "It's not your fault, Father." He replied. "There's nothing you can do to help us."

"Well, there should be!" Denethor snapped angrily. "It's bad enough I have to send you both off to war- then to watch you bloody starve and freeze makes a bitter draught nigh unbearable!"

"I'm not starving!" Faramir said rather too quickly.

"Really." Denethor said dryly, pointing his fork at Faramir's plate. "You hate boiled greens. Not just dislike. You _hate_ them. I have been trying to get you to eat them since you were a child. I remember an incident in which you threw them at me, and another in which you dropped them to the dogs, and yet another in which you put them all into your mouth and then spit them down the privy. No amount of scolding would make you eat them. There is a large pile of them on your plate, and you're eating them without being coerced. You're starving. You're the color of a piece of parchment, and about the thickness." Suddenly the anger was gone, and Denethor could say no more, and he just stabbed at his own greens savagely. Faramir merely looked at his plate in silence.

It was true. He _did_ hate boiled greens…

Boromir looked at them both, chewing. He kept out of these discussions, but he was glad that Denethor was finally noticing Faramir's strength, and also his weakness.

"I may never tell you this again." Denethor said suddenly, looking up at his sons. "But I want you both to know how terribly proud I am of you, and how much I love you." He sighed. "I probably won't say it again, so don't forget it." Faramir smiled, and Boromir grinned.

"You mean like we did all your lectures?" Boromir queried, and Denethor mock-snarled,

"I hate children! Bloody little buggers! Try to tell them things and they forget them before they hear them!" he wiped his eyes, and that was the end of it.

They finished the meal in comfortable speech, and then the table was cleared and each pulled out their respective work.

Boromir was working out troop positioning along the coast and borders, and also the watchtower rotations. Denethor was dealing with two lords who each contested that a certain waterway belonged to him (he was sorely tempted to just give it to another lord, but no, that wouldn't be fair!) Faramir filled out supply forms, leave slips and fletched arrows.

He didn't remember falling asleep, but he did remember strong arms lifting him and then gentle hands pulling off his boots and tucking him in.

Opening his eyes, he expected Boromir, but saw Denethor.

"G'night, Ada." He murmured, forgetting he was not to call his father that.

"Sleep well, little son of mine. Blessed Mettare." Denethor's hand went carefully over the silky hair, and then he was gone. Faramir wished he could stay awake to enjoy knowing that his father loved him and thought about him.

The next thing he knew, the grey winter morning was shining in his windows.

"Happy mettare!" Boromir bounced into the room, as energetic as always. Faramir groaned. His brother was sickeningly cheerful. "Up, up!" Boromir said.

"No. Go 'way." Faramir groaned, shoving his face into the pillow.

The covers were yanked away, and he curled up to avoid the cold air. "BUGGER!" he howled as he yanked on a shirt and breeches. "I'll _murder_ you!" Boromir fled, laughing like a loon, and Faramir gave chase.

As tradition demanded, the hunt ended in Denethor's rooms. As always, Denethor was impeccably dressed. He raised his eyebrow when he saw his barefoot, half-dressed sons. "Are we wrestling at this unearthly hour?" he asked in an acid tone.

Boromir's arm snaked out unbelievably fast and caught Denethor in a headlock. "Free for all!" he cheered, and Denethor smiled and coolly laid his son on his back and sat on him.

"Score one!" Faramir cheered, only to be yanked down onto the floor and pinned by both his elders, who proceeded to tickle him unmercifully. Faramir struggled wildly; after all, it was Rangers against Infantry!

After they were all breathless from laughter, they stayed on the floor in a heap. "What if a servant walks in?" Faramir worried.

"We're trying to find the ring of office." Denethor said coolly, as Boromir said blithely

"We're practicing emergency procedures. Stay _below_ the smoke!" Faramir snorted.

Denethor groaned and squirmed. "Boromir, child, you know I love you, but you are much, much too heavy to be sitting on Ada!"

"Tell Faramir that. He's the one on my lap!" Faramir laughed and rolled to his feet, helping them both up. Denethor dusted off his robes and glared.

"On the bed, both of you!"

Boromir draped himself artistically across the bottom of the bed as Faramir sat cross-legged in the middle, and Denethor sat on the edge, propping himself on his elbows.

"Youngest to eldest!" Boromir crowed. Faramir snorted.

"We did that last year."

"So? I like stability."

He sighed, and went to retrieve his gifts. There was little point- they both knew what he had gotten them, but he also knew they would pretend to be surprised. Like all things within the family, it was a game that was played with masks and words. But this game was more fun than most they played.

Boromir was truly delighted with the leather vambrances, and Denethor liked the paperweight he had carved for him. A bird swooping to a branch, wings spread, with each feather carefully and lovingly carved. The carving had taken Faramir the better part of a year, and he was proud of it. It looked nearly lifelike, and perhaps it was a testament to Denethor's liking both the gift and the giver, that in the later years when his mind began to go and his temper to slip, it was the one thing in his office he never threw.

"Now, for your gift." Denethor smiled at his younger son. This year Faramir truly didn't know what he was being given- that had not happened since his mother had died, and he wondered what the gifts could possibly be.

Denethor held out a thick double lined cloak, which, by undoing the buttons and redoing them, could become a bedroll. It was a lovely gift. He sighed and hugged the warm garment. "Thank you, father, it is just what I needed."

His father grinned and tossed him a pair of archers gloves. "I had some trouble finding those on such short notice." The inside of the leather gloves was rabbit fur, with slip off mitten tops, just pull them back and your fingers were free and mobile, while on long walks you would flip them up and your fingers were together and warm. Faramir knew he was in no danger of having any more frostbite. Boromir grinned and held out a long leather strap with pincers on both ends.

"Put it round your neck, up your coat sleeves, Far, and then when you must take them off, you won't lose them!" Boromir also had given him a new copy of the book of elvish poetry Faramir was so fond of. He had lost his last copy somehow.

"Oh, and the council and I had an emergency meeting at dawn- I told them that there had been enough stalling- Henneth Annun will have supplies, child. Your men will be cared for as well as we can. I promise more food, and medicine, at the very least, and perhaps also some weather gear. I freed up the budget from state affairs which no one attends, anyway, and also I discovered a little padding going into pockets. I then removed said lining from said pockets, so I really believe we will be able to help you a great deal."

Faramir did not know why, but tears pricked in his eyes, and his father hugged him. "You should have told me sooner that it was so hard, child. It has never been an easy posting- it never will be, which is why I chose you for it. You are strong enough to handle it. But you are my son, and I will take care of you, and never ask you to do something I don't think you can do. I promise. I will not let Henneth Annun kill you. Sooner would I lose the posting." Faramir held onto his father tightly. It was a good day, a very good day.

"Happy Mettare, ada." He whispered. "I love you."

Faramir stared out the window at the snow falling. "I was terribly sick the next day, but I still went back to my posting without telling anyone about it. I felt it to be my duty. Once there, I collapsed, and for three weeks it was touch and go. We were snowed in, and our healer was, as usual, unavailable." He smiled. "When the rangers finally managed to take me back to the City, Father and Boromir both screamed at me, and Father said if I ever did something that stupid again, he would personally tan my hide. Which he then proceeded to do." Tears filled his eyes, but he smiled. "Love is what Mettare is all about, love and new beginnings, and forgiveness." He raised his glass to a toast. "And most of all, family."

"To family." They echoed.

The ghosts smiled at each other. "You see? He knew." The one said. He had the look of a noble warrior about him. The other nodded.

"I am glad of that."

"It is nearly time to go."

"You go ahead, I will be right there."

The ghost moved to Faramir, looking at him lovingly and reached out to touch his face. His hair was long and dark, and his eyes were piercing grey.

"Blessed Mettare, child." He whispered, longing plain in his well cultured face. Faramir smiled quietly, and his eyes followed the figure as he left the room.

Yes, he had seen them all along.

_For Mettare is when the spirits walk the earth. _

"Blessed Mettare, Father, brother." He said, so softly none heard him.

And it_ was _a blessed Mettare.


End file.
